


A Princely Welcome

by ModernDayBard



Category: Macbeth - Shakespeare
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-26
Updated: 2019-01-26
Packaged: 2019-10-16 13:43:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17550776
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ModernDayBard/pseuds/ModernDayBard
Summary: Re-posted from my FF account--not stolen."Who knows if Donalbain be with his brother?" "For certain, sir, he is not." This is the last we hear of Duncan's younger son in the play, but it's not the end of his story. Malcolm might not know why his brother abandoned him, but he's determined that Scotland's lost prince return home—but will Donalbain believe the promise of safety?





	A Princely Welcome

The Thane of Fife watched the young king, Malcolm, with no small amount of worry. True, it took much hard labor to undo the damage wreaked in Scotland during the mad tyrant’s bloody reign, and most of the weight if not most of the work fell on the shoulders of Duncan’s elder son, but still...MacDuff prided himself on his ability to read people. It was clear to the king’s first councilor that further worries plagued the newly-crowned monarch.

When at last the meetings of the day were done and Malcolm was alone at last with the older man, MacDuff did dare to voice his concerns: “Art thou well, my lord?”

The red-haired youth turned, surprised at the question. “What portends this inquiry, my friend?”

“It portends nothing—they answer alone hath such skill. I merely wonder thou dost seem a-weary,” the thane answered neutrally. Not merely the king’s words but his attitude now he watched, attentive for warning cues.

“A-weary? That for lack of sleep—would that Hyperion’s mercy therein would shift,” the young king admitted. “But when a weary body grows desperate enough to tame a teeming mind, the sweet elixir should return.”

MacDuff was not so reassured. “What ist that doth so plague thy mind and steal from thee thy golden rest?” He saw the younger man attempt to wave the matter away and held firm. “Nay—do not so wag thy head at me: the health of the king is the health of the country, and, if I may speak boldly, the concern of all his loyal nobles.”

Malcolm hesitated a moment longer before yielding at last to fatherly concern, sitting not on his throne but on the dais upon which it perched. “O my friend, would that I could say ‘tis kingly concerns of state—my sovereign charge—that doth so heavily lie, but ‘tis a seemingly smaller matter. I am kept in the world of the waking by fear for the prince, my brother.”

“What—for Donalbain?” MacDuff asked, unconsciously bristling at the thought of Duncan’s younger son.

“Aye, for Donalbain,” Malcolm affirmed, unaware of the effect his brother’s name had had. “How well I know he can fight and fend for himself, and yet...There hast been no word from him since we two parted ways in doubtful fear, knowing not what friends to trust. Our messages sent to him before the assault on Dunsinane went unanswered, and from that bitter well-spring do I draw my worry.”

The dark-haired warrior closed his eyes, ashamed, in part, at the effects of his hasty choice: now he paid the price for the good he then had wrought, as the truth now came to light. “My lord, forgive me—but thy brother did send thee a reply, and on my advice it was not given thee. I did not want thy courage to falter in Bellona’s hour at the hand of familial treachery.” The deed now admitted, the Thane of Fife faced his king and awaited the blow of justice.

But the blow came not in the expected form of bluster and anger—rather, in the confused disbelief in wide, grey eyes boring into his own. “Donalbain didst refuse us aid? And came not home?” Malcolm shook his head and took to his feet, fighting the pitiless voice of truth. “Nay! My brother would never! What reason would have kept him from avenging our father’s murder? From restoring our land? From setting all to right?”

“His own fear was his reason—he gave no other.”

“His fear?” the young king did echo, MacDuff’s report clashing with what he knew of Scotland’s vanished prince. “But what fear could hold him with a grip so strong that kept him from his family’s side?”

_This_ was what MacDuff had sought to protect the red-haired youth from on battle’s eve, but he could not lie to the king he’d sworn fealty to. “His fear of you, my lord.”

* * *

A lone figure in a hooded cloak did watch the merry makers pass him by as he sat in the tavern’s furthest corner, slowly nursing his tankard. Quick grey eyes missed little as they flitted from face to figure as most in the smoky room drew near to the fire that banished the chill of the dark and rain without.

Now a new figure—also cloaked with hood drawn up—made their way into the tavern and over to its master. Though the voice that spoke was low, the watcher in the corner noted an accent not of that place and stood quickly, slipping into the crowd.

This did not go unnoticed, however, and as his hand reached for the door, the newcomer hailed him in a voice too thick and harsh to have been native to that part of Ireland. “Hold, friend! It seems as though Neptune would climb into the sky to unseat his brother—go not out into that fray.” The figure made him no answer, but the stranger pressed on. “What business could thou hast out of doors on such a night? ...Unless though would join with the treacherous sea in his heavenly assault. Stay thou here, otherwise.”

Grey eyes searched the room and found none but the tavern keeper paying the exchange any heed, then watched as the stranger moved a mere dagger’s thrust away before answering in a matching accent. “Then stay I will—though more from fear of Jove’s bolts than any loyalty thereto.”

The newcomer then lowered his hood, revealing the haggard and travel-worn face of Ross, the new Thane of Cawdor—though the watcher knew not the respected fighter had gained that title. “Thou hast less to fear and more to love than thou knows’t. Vouchsafe me a word?”

A moment’s more hesitation, then the watcher gestured to the corner table so recently vacated. “Lead on then, and say thy piece, gentle Mercury.”

* * *

The fighter, Ross, did take a moment to observe the younger man now seated across from him—what little he could see under that all-obscuring hood. Had he not heard the familiar voice, he would have no assurance that the other was, indeed, the one-time prince of Scotland, Donalbain.

“My lord, what devil hath bewitched thee and kept thee from thy home well past the dawn of safety’s hour?”

Grey eyes bored into green from beneath the dark hood’s shadow, and, at last, an answer was given. “Not a devil, but a fear thereof. The place thou callst my home has changed from safety’s haven to a den of deceit. Thou says a new and better hour hath dawned, but what proof have I ‘tis no empty claim?”

“Hast thou been so changed, my lord?” Ross asked, dismayed. “Thou never didst doubt my word before. Dost not believe thy faithful servant? I tell thee, I come from the king, thy brother.”

“And I tell thee, I have more reason to believe thee than if thou claimed thou camest from the king, my father!” Donalbain did snap in reply.

The new Cawdor did stare in disbelief at the figure before him—distorted by paranoia into something that could not be recognized as the once-fearless son of Duncan. “Thy brother—thy brother hast now heard the answer thou gavest him on battle’s eve, and still he does entreat thee to return home. Thou wallowst here, drinking in thy fear and isolating thyself from the world, while turning thy back on royal duty! Thy brother had the same fears, but those he faced, and alone—without family to help or support him—dost turn his focus to healing the wounds that mar our precious land.”

Donalbain did stare in awe as Ross’s plea did grow more impassioned.

“Speak thou not of fear of Jove’s bolts or devils—speak not the coward’s words, crying for proof or assurance that no man can give thee. Make thy choice, but wallow not in indecision while complaining of lack of knowledge.” At last the torrent of words did cease and the older man was left wondering how the prince would respond.

“Twice-Coward Donalbain! Thou who fled in the hour of thy father’s death, abandoning the last of thy family to the hostile winds of the world, then let doubt whisper in thy ear that treachery did lurk close in blood—a whisper that kept thee from thy brother’s side in his darkest hour! Even now that same whisper causes thee to mistrust the voice of sound and loyal counsel,” the prince cried, his anguish plain. “Would that I could unblock the well from whence I once drew my courage—that I would make up my mind whether I believed that he they call the bloody tyrant didst so rend my family, or whether I truly believe my own brother didst have a hand in so foul a deed. I know what I should do, and if there were a way to make my shifting heart solid once more, I would. And yet I fear ‘tis a miracle far beyond my meager skill.”

The pain in the young prince’s voice—the self-directed anger—did placate the fighter’s outrage, and the newest Thane did speak in a calmer tone once more. “To change the heart of man is the place of God alone—thou canst not _make_ thyself feel one way or another, nor do I ask thee to. My message for thee from thy brother is this and this alone: wilt thou return home and take thy rightful place by thy brother’s side?”

The one-time prince hesitated but a moment longer, but at last was ready to give his old friend his answer.

* * *

Dunsinane no longer reeked of the blood once spilt there—the final vestiges of the mad thane’s reign had at last been scrubbed from the venerable stone walls. Yet, for all the changes so far affected, to the young king Malcolm the royal seat was no longer the home it had once been in happier times. Now it was, to him, a place of work, worry, and weariness—not a home, a castle, nor even a haven: it was nothing to him but a prison.

After another long day’s work balancing negotiations, restoration plans, and pleas for justice, the red-haired youth was again alone at last with his closest councilor.  MacDuff’s worries for the health of the king had not been abated, as sleep seemed to still be a stranger to Duncan’s elder son. Wordlessly, the Thane of Fife began to follow Malcolm from the throne room when the far door opened with loud protest, halting the pair’s retreat.

The elder turned first, ready to reprimand the guards for admitting yet another petitioner, but the harsh words died on his lips when he did lock eyes with his kinsman Ross, who now entered the throne room, though not alone.

“Brother?” came a voice form behind MacDuff—not the voice of a king, but that of a youth who’d lost all his family reaching for the one fragile hope that remained. As though the simple word had been a signal, the hooded figure haunting Ross’s footsteps lifted a hand and pushed back the cowl of his cloak.

It was as though Aeolus himself had stolen all breath form Malcolm’s lungs when at last the stranger’s face was revealed: the thatch of roughly-shorn hair was a shade lighter than the king’s; the visage beneath had been built along the same lines, though with a finer hand and clearer, sharper features; only the grey eyes were an exact match to his own, but the fear there held—the desperate, terrified uncertainty—struck Duncan’s eldest sharply, chilling his heart. Donalbain’s feet stilled on the threshold of the throne room, and he could force himself no further forward.

Two pairs of grey eyes met and held, and the two figures were no longer king and exile: they dropped their respective mantles and beheld the other with a brother’s eyes. Malcolm took a slow step towards Donalbain, then, as though he could restrain himself no longer, he ran to his younger brother and embraced him with hands of steel-cord. Duncan’s younger son froze, standing stiff in the king’s arms when he did hear his brother’s muffled sob in his shoulder.

The single sound at last broke through his over-shadowing fear, and his hands did move of their own accord, returning the embrace.

Over the shoulders of the reunited brothers, Ross did meet his kinsman’s eye, and with a nod, the new Cawdor stepped back into the hall, guarding the private moment form any intrusion or interruption. MacDuff did the same with the other door, whispering his apology under his breath as he spared a final glance at what remained of Duncan’s blood:

“Welcome back to thy home, Donalbain, prince of Scotland.”


End file.
